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. Wednesday, July 28, 2004As you may know, it is extremely typical for a teenager to claim incompatibility with the thought processes of her parents ... usually the fault of the senior party. I have already spelled out difficulties with my well-meaning but still socio-politically traditional mother. My father, dare I say, is actually a worse offender, as not only does he not understand my beliefs, but he shares my mother's penchant for overachieving gadgets and ... wait for it ... has no flare for style.
Today I had to venture up into the horrors of suburban Toronto (henceforth known as the Land of Suffering and Much Gnashing of Teeth) to have a ringer replaced in my new telephone. It's a modern appliance, done in a retro style with sweeping lines, in turn juxtaposed with a matte metal finish. When I plugged it in triumphantly, it worked in making and taking calls, but naturally could not inform me when these occasions might arise. The trip up there via public transport would have taken more than an hour; via chauffeured vehicle it was perhaps twenty minutes, if even. So about forty minutes later -- there was a bit of a queue in the store -- I was back in my father's car, sans telephone but with a pickup invoice filled out by an apologetic but skeptical-it-might-could-be-done clerk. I had left half hopeful, half heartbroken. I sat glumly by the window. My father decided this was a good time to assert his superiority. Him: "What took so long?" Me: "Nothing. Just a line. They're going to try and fix it." Him: "Is it going to cost anything?" My father doesn't believe there is such a thing as a good deal, unless he himself personally procures it, and even then, the party from whom he obtains it is still a bunch of conniving, thieving bastards out to murder his sons and rape his daughter ... especially if they are not Chinese. Yes. He is also somewhat racist ("somewhat" being "extremely", but he is my father, after all; I'm going to cut him some slack, even if I retract it a moment later). He may not be always be hateful, but he makes absolutely horrendous generalizations. I have already omitted his snide remark about Indians working at the store because it fills me with almost physical shame. Me: "No, because it came with a 90-day guarantee. If it can't be fixed, it can't be exchanged either, because mine was the last one in the entire company. I already knew from the onset that they don't do refunds. They'll give me store credit." Him: "[Derisive snort] Oh, that's very clever. So you have to shop at their store." Me: "I don't mind. They've got a few cheaper phones I like, and I can use the remaining amount to get something else extra." A brief silence passed. Him: "So how much did that telephone cost, huh?" Last time he drove me to the location, I had wisely rushed in, grabbed the phone, paid for it, and rushed out before he sauntered in, precisely to avoid questions such as these. Me: "..." Him: "How much?" Me: [Muttering] "Twenty dollars." Which was still a very fair deal, having seen the same phone for fifty elsewhere. Bah! Him: "How about that phone we just got? It was under twenty dollars, and it does all sorts of stuff!" Besides simple, mundane functions such as redialling and holding -- which to my knowledge neither of my parents knows how to utilize anyway -- this "stuff" includes: Displaying the current date or whichever date you wish; calculating sums (that old song again), and producing an ultraviolet beam to detect counterfeit currency (according to it, half my personal fortune is fake). And yes, it is also a fantastic cook and lover. Me: "..." Him: [Watching the trafficlight, with his customary two fingers on the wheel] You see, I regard my father as somewhat fearsome. He does not take dissidence very well. Therefore, this is what I wanted to say: Me: "Mine makes and receives telephone calls, Dad. That's all I need a telephone to do. If I want to know the date, I'll check my calendar, alarm clock, wristwatch, computer, or the television. If I need to figure out my taxes, I'll use the scientific calculator I already have, or better yet, use your accountant. If I need to verify the legality of my tender, I'll use the more expensive and more reputable UV device Mom has at work. "The phone you and Mom purchased, while a good deal and very functional and futuristic-looking, is very ugly with no sense of original design or class. It has an awful-sounding ring and a handset the size of a Snickers bar. You have little taste in aesthetic matters and your disregard for their importance in life has offended me, not in just this instance but over several in my lifetime; this includes your obvious distaste for fine art, which you express boundlessly even when you know I have a fervent devotion to it. Also, you should stop wearing so many polo shirt and shorts combos; you used to be a fairly stylish and studly man, yes, I've seen the photographs, and what the hell was up with that perm in 1981?" Instead this is what I actually said: Me: "Hmmmm." I really hope the ringer is repaired. A room ... kitchen ... low lit. Outside, dusk, and quiet, falls.
He stands at the sink; the overhead light throws shadows across his lowered face as he concentrates on a slippery balance of errand and reverie. Sleeves rolled, his forearms are submerged in soapy, tepid liquid; as they shift, there is the gentle clinking of glass and metal amidst the sloshing water. He hums softly to complement the fluid tune. His head itches; he sweeps up a dripping hand to scratch, obliviously sculpturing half his hair into a haphazard lick. I cannot stop my smile. He hears me move towards him. He keeps on, until my hands snake out from under his arms; one wraps over his shoulder, and the other rests on his left breast. His heart beats against the press of my palm, and mine against his back. His eyes hold mine in the mirror opposite as I rest my chin on his shoulder. The water music continues. My breaths come slow and steady. The rushes of air dance over the naked nape of his neck; the tiny hairs rise and stand on end. He shivers a little, and his tremor runs through my entire body. . Friday, July 23, 2004Peek-a-boo.
Yes, those are plastic grapes hanging on my blinds. I don't remember why. Now to mount a photographic barrage-attack on the unsuspecting citizens of Torontopolis! Bwahaha. First, Romulus Doe brought you the WTF Group. Now, it seems that Toronto is indeed a hotbed for that volatile mix of company naming contests and mischievous employees, for I present to you:
There seemed, I observed today, to be nothing more female than bra-shopping with your friends. Of course, there was also nothing more boring, especially if they kept shooting down your suggestions for blue lace and electric pink ribbon, and stuck instead to white cotton. Bah.
Joined up later by a far more pragmatic friend who immediately made the sharp observation that we had bought nothing -- I excluded as I had been along in the sole role of visual consultant -- we made our goodbyes. My new companion and I then strolled to Yorkville to keep an appointment with yet another; while she pedalled her way closer, we explored a ridiculously overpriced retro toy store. Madonna's children, evidently, had been in the same store as we, their mother being in town for a few shows. I only realized when we were leaving, with a stylishly dressed man stopping us to ask what the commotion was, and my friend explained. That accounted for the other man -- on a red scooter -- who had been snapping photos of what I thought was an ordinary storefront. While we lounged on a rock, waiting, he managed to round the block twice more before seeming to finally have shot off to have his photos bronzed and framed, or some other. We watched as swirls of curious star-gazers came by and left slightly dazed and excited, even having seen essentially nothing. To pass the time, we fawned over the wonder that was Cecil Adams of Straight Dope fame, and fretted over the recent disappearance of Peter Mansbridge and Ian Hanomansing from CBC Television. (If you have any information...) Friends, a meal, a movie, a snack, conversation and laughter -- the day ended well. We all parted ways; I made my way to Donlands station via subway, to catch the connecting bus for the last leg of my journey. Once there, too late I discovered that the last bus left at 10:30 PM, an absurdly early time, for the absurdly underused and therefore underserviced station. It was 10:39 PM. I was, in a word, stranded. As, in that rather shortsighted practise of hindsight, I silently ran through my day snipping away seconds here and there so I could have arrived nine and a half minutes earlier, I picked up the payphone receiver and called home, to request a ride. My tone was of building confidence; my father had never failed to come through before. My mother shook my world. "He's not back from work yet." "Well, can I walk home then?" "You're not walking home." "But--" "It's a quiet street." And you know what I think about quiet streets, we both thought simultaneously. Honestly the chances of my being raped were quite slim, and as a plain girl with a negligible chest, they were slimmer still. But wisely I had wasted no breath attempting to explain the magic of statistics to my mother. "What's the payphone number?" she asked. "What?" "The payphone number." I reluctantly read the number to her. "All right. When he gets home, I'll call you." "What?" "I'll call you." Too shocked to protest, I agreed to stay put, and hung up. After fifteen minutes of jitterily watching the payphone, however, totally terrified of looking extremely stupid -- in my mind -- to perhaps a total of two people, including the dozing toll collector, I phoned her back. "Can I just take the subway back to Yonge, switch down to Queen, and catch the streetcar home?" There was a moment. "Yes, that would be acceptable. If you don't want to wait for your father." "I don't wanna." It was, in fact, inevitable that my father was about to arrive home just about any moment and be able to pick me up in five minutes flat. But somehow I felt I could not risk such a sure bet. Besides, I had been so wired up for the last quarter hour or so that now I had a desire for a little night ride. "Bye, then." "Bye." I was travelling backwards. Steppenwolf accompanied me for most of the journey, while I stared at a spot on the empty chair across from me. Luckily no one took it for the rest of the way; I surely would have stared at his or her crotch for minutes without the slightest realization. Two young men napped on either side of the doors -- one with his head tipped backwards, the other with his mouth open in an O as he slept. Another glanced at me occasionally; I smiled when he looked away. A couple shared grapes and laughed. A sensation of languidness washed over me, as I succumbed to sheer physical and mental fatigue. At Yonge-Bloor, a late-night crew was changing the ads. Half the station watched in fascination -- in fact, two Indian businessman stood as quite a matter-of-fact audience -- as they wiped down the plastic windows, opened the front of the light-boxes, and replaced the large sheet of heavy plastic printed with advertisements of cats and snowy white ducks. At Queen, I lumbered onto the streetcar and slid next to an open window. I leaned back, and turned my face towards the street. A man was taking me home, with no less than professional intentions (perhaps a minor minus). I was tucked up in my seat, my temple rested against the window frame -- the wind blew cool on my cheeks and ruffled through my hair. The rain-washed streets, still damp, smelled fresh, metallic, and earthy. The streetcar speeded along at a regular, constant rhythm, in the water-filled tracks. I closed my eyes. Glorious. . Tuesday, July 20, 2004There's no content today. Just an old art assignment.
I choose you, Mr. Vaguely-Angry-Looking-Pelican-Stork-Bird!  Wow. Hope you don't mind me tootin' my own horn, but that's pretty fucking good. Well, I kinda, sorta had a guide (not tracing, mind you, jeez, that's dirty), but still. And well, the shape's a bit screwy, but the texture's quite fine. Decent control. /Incoherence.
Sans social companions for the day, I trampled down to BMV to score a few books. Strange people congregate in bookstores -- myself included, naturally, but my strangeness is kept inside, whereas others seem to put it on the outside. I've been delayed by a blind Lord of the Rings fanatic and a man who told me a story about a Russian clown named Popov who threw bottles at fighter planes ... You can't make these kinds of people up.
This lovely Sunday afternoon, a couple was there. Their conversation, I realized, more or less crystallized the differences between the male and female mindsets.
Her: "I think we should get this edition." Him: "I think we should get this edition." Both: "Why?" Her: "Because it's nicer." Him: "Because it's bigger." Then she had to throw a wrench into the entire operation. Her: "Touch my tush." What? I thought frantically. And he did. I quietly inched away. People are bizarre.
Yep, this again. I'm not certain why my mother keeps asking me to accompany her to go shopping, since usually by the end -- or more accurately, the beginning -- I'm extremely testy and disagreeable, on the pure principle of disagreeing.
So this sunny Friday afternoon, we went shopping. The results, let's say, were entirely predictable. (Yes, we spent nearly $60.00 at Dollarama.) I love her. I really do. She is a wonderful person and I am extremely thankful to have her as my mother -- except when we try to exchange our socio-political ideas. Sometimes -- that being "often" -- we have problems communicating properly, both on the surface and more deeply. Originally immigrants, my parents still don't have a very skilful grasp of English -- despite having lived in Canada for nearly thirty years. I, on the other hand, am supremely fluent, more so than in what should be my native language, Cantonese. This linguistic discordance between my parents and myself has in recent years become a major problem. Once in a while my friends would complain that their parents didn't understand them and I would snort and say, while they roll their eyes at the familiar tirade, "You think that's hardship? My parents don't speak my language! Literally!" Clearly, many of these conversations were not carried out in so many words; I have added articulations of the thoughts I had at the time, and nothing of anything spoken is verbatim. I believe, however, the gist of it is accurate. Ding. We are on our way westbound along Queen Street East to catch a subway on the Yonge-Bloor line, before backtracking eastbound on the Danforth line to Scarborough Town Centre, a stop away from the end of the line. This will be a trip that adds roughly forty to forty five minutes to our itinerary, because my mother refused to wait at most thirty minutes for the bus -- a bus that would've taken us directly to the Donlands station -- about six or seven stops away from Yonge-Bloor -- on the Danforth line. In other words, it is folly. Our streetcar currently inches through a street parked with early 19th century cars and filled with milling extras in shirts and suspenders. It is obviously a movie set. Her: "Oh, look, they must be making a movie!" This is old news to me; Cinderella Man, starring Russell "Bee's Knees" Crowe, has been filming here for weeks, maybe months. (You'd be well-advised to ignore the inside joke about Crowe's knees; why I would post an inside joke on a place where none of the appropriate parties would see it is completely beyond me.) Myself: "Yeah." Her: "Look at those cards! They're definitely not from now." Myself: "Uh huh." She spots a couple of modern Toronto police officers in uniform. Her: "Well, those policemen are obviously from our time! Hahahaha!" She is very amused with herself, giggling loudly and nudging me gratuitously. She does this all the time. Myself: "It's not that funny, Mom." They've also replaced many storefronts with more period-appropriate displays. My mother spots a few and makes sure I, the girl who had previously considered a History major, know all the differences. Her: "And look at that fake butcher window! I bet that chicken is fake too! Hardy har har har!" Myself: "..." Her: "Did you see that t-shirt? I think you'd look cute in it." I look at it. Myself: "It says 'Brazil Soccer.'" In glitter, no less. Her [carrying on her browsing, turned away from me in what I am thinking is a masterfully subtle use of human body language]: "So?" Myself: "I don't like soccer. I don't have any particular affinity for Brazil either."
Her: "So?" Myself: "It would be against my principles to wear a shirt implying I am a soccer fan when I'm not. Worse, it devalues actual sports fans since the t-shirt would become meaningless if just anyone wore it." Her: "So?" I am sensing a pattern. Her: "Does it matter? If you like how it looks, you should wear it." Myself: "You don't get it, Mom." Her: "No, I don't." Myself: "I just said that." At her silence, I switch tactics. Myself: "OK ... would you wear, say, the Christian cross just because it looked good?" Her: "Sure." There is a pause as I am too appalled for words. Myself: "So you're saying that you'll wear anything regardless of the meaning behind it as long as it satisfies your aesthetic needs?" Her: "Yes." Myself: "So you would wear a swas ... the symbol of the Third Reich?" I correct myself as I think perhaps "swastika" will be too obscure a word for her. A customer at the counter turns around and stares at me for a moment as we walk by. Her: "Third Reich?" (I go through this all the time. I must simplify nearly every single thing I say in order to accomodate my parents. It's quite possibly more frustrating than you are equipped to imagine, forcing myself to boil down everything to the terms easiest and quickest to convey, when I will endlessly debate the nuances of "smart" versus "clever" versus "intelligent" in their appropriate usage. This is not to mention the added task of trying to find the equivalent in Cantonese.) Myself: "Nazis." Her: "What's a Nazi?" Myself: "..." No reply from her. Myself: "WWII. Hitler." Her: "Oh. No." Myself: "Why? Because of the history behind it or because you don't like how it looks? It's called a swastika, by the way." Her: "I don't like how it looks." Myself: "What's the huge difference, design-wise, between the Christian cross and the swastika?" Her: "I don't like it." Myself: "I think the swastika is well-designed. Simple, recognizable, iconic." Her: "When you speak in English, I don't understand you as well." Myself: "Sigh." Her: "Oh, look. Do you want one? It's a CD case with a calculator on it. It's on sale." Myself: "Why would I need a CD case with a calculator on it? I have a much better calculator at home, plus many other gadgets that have extra calculators. I don't need another calculator." Her: "But it's a CD case." I can hear the wheels turning in her head: She listens to CDs. CDs need cases. Everyone needs calculators. What's the problem? Myself: "It's a worse CD case for it. Not only is it heavier, it's more delicate due to the fact it has an electronic device attached. I don't understand how adding a calculator to something automatically makes it a better object when in fact the object in question has suffered both in form and function." Her: "Look. That store sells guitars." Ding. Let's all go to the lobby, let's all go to the lobby, let's all go to the lobby ... Ding. Her: "I think we're in the men's section. Let's go upstairs to the women's." Myself: "Ok ... but they might have Hogwarts-style ties down here." Her: "But men wear ties, Gloria." This is a very old discussion. Myself: "Mom? You know how women are allowed to vote these days? To drive? To hold jobs? To wear pants? I think they can wear ties." Her: "I think the escalator is on the other side." Her: [Derisive laughter] "Pink? Definitely not for Wesley." (Wesley is my little brother.) Myself: "Men can wear pink." Her: "If he's gay." Myself [trying to suppress my distasteful and mildly outraged tone]: "Mom. Who says that pink is only a colour for women and homosexuals? There is nothing inherent in pink that makes it that way -- nature does not dictate it. Only our society and culture has; if we had the courage to let go of that, pink would be fine for anyone. A man neither is nor becomes gay because he wears a pink shirt. It's a colour." Her: "Do you think Wesley will like these socks?" I am feeling the quiet but growing tension. Myself: "Do you want me to shut up? You don't seem to care about or listen to what I'm saying anyway." (Graceful, as always.) Her: "I can tell you to shut up any time I want. I'm your mother; you're my daughter. I can kick you out of the house any time I want too." Myself: "... Good, then. Ok." (My mother is apparently a Hallmark diehard. I had no idea she attached this much meaning to the cards she gave us until this conversation.) Her [reaching out towards the stacks]: "Do you see any cards for 17th birthdays?" (I have censored my other brother's name per his penchant for freaking out that I talk about him with other people he has not approved with his own acquaintance.) Myself: "[Bleep] doesn't care, Mom. None of us do." (Wesley is seven years old, so this is a valid blanket statement.) Her [sounding very hurt]: "Fine." Myself [after sighing under the fresh burden of guilt]: "Mom, do you really think we need cards to tell us that you care about and love us? You tell us every day, and we know it. It's not as though you made the card yourself; of course we'd keep something like that. But you just picked a card off a rack, a card that was probably previously picked by fifty other people." Her: "Yes. Yes." Myself: "I just saved you a dollar too." Her: "Mm-hm." Ding dong. So there you have it -- a day in the life of Gloria and her mother when on a consumeristic jaunt through an exceedingly trashy mall. (My mother also does not understand the concept of trashiness, and when I try to explain it to her, she rebukes me for being so negative about strangers. When I attempt to explain no one who matters will know, she becomes huffily silent and implies that my presence has sullied her immediate environment.) On this shopping trip as well, I had an actual, significant disagreement with my mother on a point of fashion -- an area over which we rarely have any troubles. I wanted new boots to wear with skirts -- she considered this request superfluous, as we had several pairs at home -- all of which, of course, I thought entirely unsuitable for my situation. Which is absolutely true. As a natural next course of action, I, needless to say (but I shall say anyway), must acquire these boots as soon as possible. I have entered teenagehood, truly, at long last. |
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture. home | contact | profile art blogging body childhood consumerism dream durr family fashion film history humour internet language lit nerd people poetry rant romance school sex social relations toronto ttc work 
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